


The Draft

by staples



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Mild Horror, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-25 21:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12541448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staples/pseuds/staples
Summary: And the lord said, "Go to the Devil."





	The Draft

**Author's Note:**

> Have a couple other AUs I want to write, thought this would be a good way to get in the right mindset. Story is not-super-loosely based on The Lottery by Shirley Jackson, although it's been a minute since I read it.

The hours leading up to The Dottery are always fun. They always do up the rec hall to make it more festive; this year, they really steered into the whole  _ leaves  _ thing, deep reds and burned yellows flung over every rough edge, the younger kids cutting up brown paper like snowflakes, the older girls weaving crowns from plastic vines they bought in bunk from the crafts store.

Mikey and Nate should probably be doing something, like, more official to prepare for tonight, but someone asked them to watch the cider station then never came back, so, they stayed and watched everyone under the age of ten run in their costumes. There’s a high howl of glee, and Mikey’s eyes get drawn to a group dressed as cats and dogs and bears, teeth bared as they tackled each other and pushed faces into the dirt. 

He looks away again when Nate’s elbow catches against his side. Their eyes catch, and Nate smiles and nods before sneaking out from behind the table. A moment later, he’s snatching up an armful of flailing sheets, projecting his voice over the shrieking. “A  _ ghost?  _ Oh, Bobby,  _ no, _ what are you doing, are you trying to jinx us? Do you want us taken by the le Saint-Esprit?”

A head shakes free from the sheet, hair sticking out from static, the face of the kid Nate’s been babysitting all year. “That’s not that works,  _ I’m  _ not going anywhere. I’m too young.”

Nate leans closer and faux-whispers, “You think they aren’t watching already? You remember Jack?” Stilled, Bobby nods, just barely, eyes wide. “Well, he cheered to the Buffalo, just once. And you know what happened?”

“He got chosen,” Bobby responded, awed.

Nate nodded seriously and intoned, “‘Be mindful of those that empower us.’”

Bobby stares at Nate’s still-serious face, before looking over to Mikey for confirmation. He spreads his lips wide, baring the plastic white fangs he’d found lying around the house. The kid’s eyes grow about three sizes, and Mikey fights not to laugh as Nate sets Bobbly loose again, surely about to tell every one of his peers the insight just given to him.

“You really shouldn’t mess with the kids, Nater, it isn’t fair.”

“Oh, yeah? Who said I was messing with him? Give ‘em here,” and Nate extends his hand towards Mikey’s face, who obediently spits the fangs out onto his palm. He licks his teeth, afterward—like a new mouthguard, only worse. “You watch how tonight goes, Mr. Can’t-Resist-a-Costume.”

“Oh, yeah, a  _ vampire  _ is calling on anyone,” Mikey scoffs.

“No? They’re not demons?  _ Devils, _ even?” Nate raises his eyebrows significantly, but before Mikey could tease out how serious he was, a frazzled event coordinator bursts through the front door. 

She looks right at them, but announces to the room. “The Draft will be taking starting in  _ thirty minutes,  _ people! Please find your allocated seats,  _ especially  _ if you’re eligible!”

Obediently, the crowd tames down to a murmur, carefully packing away any safety hazards before filing out into the field.

It is, technically, Mikey’s fifth year of eligibility. He should, maybe, take it more seriously, now that Matthew’s time had come and gone with him still here, but it’s hard, after a lifetime of the same ceremony, to care about that more than, like, the way his knuckles keep brushing Nate’s. He wonders if it’s a purposeful thing. If nothing else, The Draft is a night of change, after.

The draft, like every draft before it, is held in one of the local farmer family’s barren field, recovering from its last crop. Chairs and benches and mats, enough for the whole town, are arranged in a semi-circle around a jerry-built stage. The Bastians and Mcleods are sitting close to each other, and it’s easy to keep up the momentum they walked in at, Mikey to the right, Nate to the left, level-headed.

“What are you wearing?” Mikey’s mother hissed at him. “Is that red? Take it off.”

Mikey looked down, picked at a sweater he’s had for longer than he remembers. “It’s, like, barely even maroon at this point. And I’m not wearing anything under it.”

She gives him a look like she’s considering repeating herself, but she leaves it at a promising glare that she then turns towards her husband, who seems to be placing bets. He’s always had a good eye for projections.

They’re still bickering when Bettman takes the stage, a man w a tall, frayed black binder in hand. The original binding had fallen apart a couple years years back, when he’d insisted on doing all this in the rain, and no one had gotten around to putting it back together. Mikey thought it’d be a worthwhile investment. It took long enough, without Bettman having paper flipping as an excuse.

“Who even voted for this guy?” Mikey hisses to Nate’s, lips almost close enough to touch the soft curls of his ear. “Been here for longer than both of us, and, swear to god, ‘commissioner’ wasn’t even on the ballot last fall.”

Nate drops a hand to Mikey’s thigh, squeezes, hard, then leaves it there. It distracts Mikey through the entirety of the opening statements, the wind starts to pick up, blowing inward, leafs picking up off the ground.

“In the first moments of our 2017 offerings, we call upon the might of the maple, the old power of the six. To the blue that stains our shirts, your saints, the ground stable below us—” and so on and so forth. Mikey tunes Bettman’s prayers out and focuses the air around him. 

You can feel Them coming, if you pay enough attention, and this—this has always been one of Mikey’s favorites. If you’re allowed to have such things. The wind is strong, chilling, and Mikey almost swears he can smell sweet sap when a scream breaks through the moment. 

Mikey opens his eyes, turns, and sees Matthews standing, kicking the leaves at his feet, face red and hands clawed even from the distance—

Huh. Pretty much everyone thought Auston was a sure thing, especially after he left for the mountains to train for a year. Like, who even  _ does  _ that?

But Breyana has always been exceptional, and this is her first year. They must have waited for her.

Auston’s parents make quick work of quieting him, all of them bent together, talking lowly. Eventually, Auston sits, his head bowed and a shitty crown of knotted plastic in his hands. 

The show moves on, with less fanfare. There’s an uncomfortable moment when the air reeks of animal, and the white fur of the Goathead comes forth and claims their usual wing during road hockey, Alex, with a cry that sounds like clashing metal.

Mikey’s never liked that one. He asks, under his breath, “Didn’t They  _ just  _ take William?” 

“They have, like, six kids, what do you expect?” Nate responds, “now,  _ sh.” _

And he squeezes Mikey’s thigh again. It’s distracting. It’s all Mikey can really think about. How that, maybe, they’ve been doing this for too long, and maybe Mikey should do something about it. Finally. After. If they’re both still here. Mikey  glances at Nate and catches Nate looking at him, and they smile, and roll their eyes.

It’s a thought.

It gets him hot.

Really hot. He huffs out, only the air he breathes back in sears, fills his lungs and his blood with a scorching heat before he can even process it, let alone cry out, scream.

His eyes jerk up from where Nate’s hand is on his thigh, only to catch on hooves on lithe legs, a twitching take, wide-spread ink black wings blocking out the stage as Bettman says, “—Jersey Devil, for the humility of mothers, we are yours.”

And then it all goes red.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://mogilny.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/yikesave)


End file.
